


Settled

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 06:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4735787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Elrond’s read their map, Thorin can’t hold off from Gandalf much longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Settled

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Because someone told me not to write Thorin/Gandalf for some reason and fuck that.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He needs the walk to settle down, to let off steam, though it does him little good—elves are _everywhere_ , with their insincere manners and their dull music. In the end, he returns far sooner than he means to, with half a mind to rouse his people even though it’s the middle of the night, just to hear a proper _ruckus_.

But he’s too good a leader for that. He knows they deserve this rest, too soft though it is, and he burdens only himself with the displeasure of it. He slips into his chambers with a heavy scowl still on his face, and he’s not particularly surprised by what he sees there. 

Gandalf’s perched atop his bed, looking out at the twinkling stars beyond the balcony before turning a gentle grin to Thorin. It’s almost strange to see him lounging back in rich sheets, feet up with his sandals off, after so long on the road, wrapped in rags and huddled amongst stones. But like with most things, he adapts and fits well enough in: his aesthetic’s oddly transient that way. Thorin still sighs, weary as ever, and shuts the door behind himself. 

He should’ve expected it and prepared himself. Now he’s only steeped in bitterness, and he grunts, “Have you come for an apology?”

Gandalf’s smile is fond, his voice soothing and deep, though they’ve known each too long for Thorin not to catch the twinkle of a gloat in it. “My dear Thorin, I only ever wanted what was best for you, and if you want to know, then yes: I am quite pleased you’ve gotten it.”

Thorin knows that, but it doesn’t make him hate losing any less. He comes tiredly towards the bed, kicking out of his boots and deliberately leaving them where they fall. He gets a sick sort of satisfaction out of seeing dirt dragged onto the polished Elven floors. His coat he leaves in a similar pile, so he’s down to his tunic and trousers when he clambers onto the bed. He settles next to Gandalf, half turned, because Gandalf lies where he pleases and stays sprawled out in the middle. He’s tall, but thin for this, his robes resting around his body like a silken sheath. His staff leans against the wall on the other side of the bed, but the hat still casts his face in some shadow, and Thorin pushes the brim up so he can see Gandalf’s eyes while they talk. 

Then he begrudgingly admits, “I remain no great lover of elves, but I suppose I am glad it’s done now. The map’s read.” His hand falls from Gandalf’s hat to the pillows, where his thick fingers thread into the long tufts of Gandalf’s beard, white-grey and in great waves. Gandalf has a beard to put any dwarf to shame. Yet he has no idea how impressive it is. Thorin keeps the admiration to himself, because he thinks Gandalf, beneath all the wise words and charming smiles, has a big enough head. Still, Thorin adds, “At least we don’t have to fight anymore.”

“We will find plenty else to fight over,” Gandalf chuckles, likely right, as always. He returns the gesture, lifting his arm from the seam of the headboard to clasp Thorin’s cheek, and the warmth of it gives Thorin’s body a little shock. There’s so much _good_ in Gandalf, and though Thorin never backs down from a challenge and rarely follows anyone, he feels that worthiness in times like these. And it always makes him feel foolish for fighting as boorishly as he does. Gandalf’s long fingers slip into Thorin’s dark hair and brush it back, like a master affectionately petting a disquieted beast. But Thorin’s tame again, for now, and just leans into it. Gandalf’s warmth is _comforting_ , too, always there when Thorin needs it, there to push him when he needs it, even after all the cruel things he’s said. Like reading his thoughts, Gandalf murmurs, “Take heart. We will get through this, my friend.” And he leans forward to press a chaste peck to Thorin’s forehead, while Thorin smiles, because they haven’t been _friends_ for years. 

He wonders, not for the first time, what all of Gandalf’s story is. Their world seems to be only _now_. Gandalf looks so old, sometimes, with the crinkles at the sides of his eyes and the thinness to his bones, but when he thumbs Thorin’s cheek, his spirit still shines through, and it seems young and bright—Thorin’s often suspected that that spark will long outlast him, and when he’s lying in an old bed with the line of Durin past to Fíli and Kíli, Gandalf will still be riding long journeys to aid great kings and fight as fierce as any. 

When Gandalf’s hand falls away, Thorin takes it, brings it to his lips and kisses the back of it. Reminiscent and softened, as Gandalf often makes him, he murmurs, “Thank you. Thank you for dragging me on this wild journey, when I was sure all hope was lost.”

“All I did was give you a little nudge out the door,” Gandalf chuckles. They both know it’s more, so Thorin doesn’t fight, just wrestles with his grin. “You always had the fire for great deeds, and it is simply a shame when you aren’t cultivating it.”

Thorin’s grin twitches wider, and he finds himself purring, “I already knew you liked my fire.” Gandalf’s mentioned many times how it’s roused his own. Still holding Gandalf’s hand, Thorin shifts forward, his head forcing the hat to tilt back and his nose falling alongside Gandalf’s. He brings their lips together, his coarse beard against the wondrous locks of Gandalf’s, and they share a lingering, firm kiss full of _wanting_. It ebbs away all the tension of the past few days, more so when Gandalf parts them, and Thorin tugs Gandalf back by the beard for another, this time with a trace of tongue, because he likes the way Gandalf’s longer, slicker, slender tongue feels wrapped around his own. He likes the contrast in their bodies, in their styles, in their need, but the way they come together still to move mountains. Gandalf always kisses like he treasures it. He’s one of the few in Middle Earth who knows everything Thorin is, everything’s he’s capable of, even beyond the titles to just what he is at the _core_ , and seems to revel in it all. 

When they’re finished, it’s only because Thorin wants _more_. Every time he explores Gandalf’s body it feels _new_ , exotic and strangely ripe. But like he gives Gandalf vigour, Gandalf tempers his and brings out the best in him. He could use that now. He lifts Gandalf’s hat off and tosses it aside, to which Gandalf only smiles, and Thorin growls, “I think we just earned ourselves a round of makeup sex.”

“I suppose I could rouse these old bones for it,” Gandalf sighs.

Thorin snorts, “You sound like Balin. Don’t go pretending you’re not spry when I’ve seen you leap up a mountainside like a goat.” Gandalf kisses him without answer.

Then they’re slipping under the covers, intertwining more gracefully than Thorin ever has. In the starlight of Rivendell, Gandalf looks as magnificent and beautiful as he did when Thorin first saw him, full of hope and promise of all of Thorin’s dreams.


End file.
